Billy Slytherin & the Remains of Voldemort
by Tobias Rhubarbe Stauffer
Summary: Set many years after the Battle of Hogwarts: Billy Slytherin is a troubled boy with a hunger for dark secrets. A disciplinary meeting with Headmaster Ronald Weasley is the best hope to course-correct the boy's dangerous trajectory. OR IS IT?


Billy Slytherin didn't care what the stories were, or what the other students thought. The truth was so obvious that he'd learned it well by the start of his second year: Professor Potter was the most ignorant and unprofessional Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher Hogwarts had ever had.

Their footsteps echoed through the corridor to the Headmaster's office. Professor Potter led the way in his customary hobble, clacking the tile with his candy striped walking cane as he went. This, and the professor's crazed chock of white hair made his age almost cartoonish, quirky. The other student's loved it. But there was little that Billy hated more.

"Pumpkin Juice." Potter smacked the extremely ugly stone gargoyle with his cane as he spoke the word. It rotated away, revealing the spiral stair to Headmaster Ronald Weasley's office.

Billy hesitated, wondering if Potter would relent.

"Chip Chop! Up you go, Billy! The Headmaster will want to discuss your actions."

 _Father will be furious when he hears of this._ Billy let the small satisfaction warm him as he shoved his way past Potter and up the stair. He let a shallow smile creep onto his face; his shield against whatever reprimands Weasley would have in store.

The door ahead was already cracked, so he pushed it the rest of the way, finding himself in a warm stuffy office.

Behind a claw footed desk, Headmaster Weasley hunched over a solo game of Wizard's Chess. In his hand was a crystal cup of pumpkin colored liquid. The puckered mouth-hole of his snow-white beard was sticky with the same stuff. He was a messy sipper.

"Billy Sssssssslytherin," Weasley slurred when he set eyes on him. "W-w-what are you doing here at this hour?"

"It's barely past noon." Billy felt his shield-smile transform, curling into something delighted. _Merlin's beard. He's actually drunk. Wait till father hears of this insolence!_

Weasley gestured with his wand, enchanting a bottle to slosh out a messy refill. "More trouble with my colleaguesss, I 'xpect."

"Potter—"

"Professor Potter, yes."

Billy ground his teeth. "Professor Potter was teaching us about pixies. My snake got hungry."

"Ssssnake? We don't allow snakes as pets, Billy. Only Owls, Cats, Toads, Crickets, Weasels, Measles."

 _What are you on about?_ Crickets and weasels were not viable pets, and Billy was pretty sure measles was only mentioned for its rhyming merits. _You old crackpot._

If Hogwarts was run as it ought to be, Billy's father would be headmaster instead of this old dolt. Maybe then Billy wouldn't have to sneak in pets of his liking.

While Billy hadn't yet mastered Parseltongue, it was only a matter of time. His parents had traced their lineage back far enough that there was little doubt of their family's true roots. They'd recently had their last name legally changed to justify the discovery.

So why shouldn't the true heir of Slytherin have a pet snake in school? If the rumors were true, Potter was a parselmouth. But any inquiries Billy had made on the matter were quickly shut down by Potter.

"It's indecent to sneak restricted animals into Hogwarts. No bloody snakes, no bloody spiders. Especially the latter. Do you hear mmmme, Billy?"

 _Go on, take away all my House points. I know you want to. Slytherin always loses._

The Headmaster was busy with his chessboard, apparently having forgotten he had company. Billy was about to retreat, perhaps taking the rest of the day off, when Weasley unexpectedly slurred something else.

"I knnnnow what its like, Billy. You want to be special. I did too. No one ever acknowledged what I did. Older brothers starting joke shop corporate empires. My best friend was the boy who lived. The one who killed Voldemort."

Billy felt a stab of impatience to be an audience member to this story again. "Yes, I've heard all about—"

"No one knows the truth. The stories are lies. I'm f-f-fffforbidden to speak of it. My victory. Why do you think they stuck me in this office? A bribe so I'd stay quiet about what I know."

Billy went still. He was afraid to even breathe, lest he spark a sudden caution in the drunken Headmaster. Something told him he was onto something here. That this was important.

Weasley went back to his board, slopping a swallow of juice into his beard. The orange liquor dribbled in sticky beads.

"Victory?" Billy prodded at last.

Weasley set down his drink with a clank that made Billy jump. For a moment it seemed he'd sobered up, but his next words made it clear he hadn't. "Yyyyyou know about the Hhhorcruxes? How we found them all? The Dark Lord hid the various key's to his destruction in convenient locations which, as child-detectives, wweee were able to root out and dessstroy?"

"Yes."

Weasley shook his head, his beard hole puckering. "Nope. Nope. Nope."

"What do you mean, nope? Professor?"

"Billy, I'm telling you that we missssssed a measly little horcux. It was a maddening easter egg hunt. We were lucky to find as many as wwwwe did."

 _That's impossible._ Voldemort was defeated. He'd been gone for decades. If a Horcrux had survived, it meant that Voldemort wasn't dead. Billy was cautious once more. His father's advice echoed back to him. _You've got to put the Sly back in Slytherin, son._

Billy waited out the headmaster, watching him as he fumbled with his tiny chess pieces, his brow furrowing with each error. "Old Voldy wouldn't die, Billy. We were at the battle of Hogwartssss when we realized our mistake. Harry despaired. He was ready to throw in the towel. Even my ex wife, for all her brilliance, had nothing." Weasley looked up, a crooked grin taking his face. "It was my idea, Billy. Mine alone."

"What idea?"

Weasley leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "You're in what? Your second year?"

Billy nodded.

"Its an important year. The ssssecond one," Weasley pointed at him knowingly. "That's when I learned everything I needed to know. The spell I needed to defeat Voldemort. Never underestimate your second year at Hogwarts."

He pushed his chair back, wobbling his way around the desk to clutch Billy's shoulder. For a moment Billy thought this tantalizing glimpse at the truth was over, that Weasely would steer him to the door. He was ready to resist, to slide into his most cunning and tricky version of himself. To pry the truth from this drunken old fool.

But he didn't need to. Weasley drew him over to an ornate wardrobe of dark wood. The knobs were shaped like coiled snakes. "I did it, boy. Not Harry. Not Hermione. Not my brothers. It was me." His voice shook as he spoke. "I defeated Voldemort."

Billy eyed the wardrobe's snaky knobs. He wanted to reach out and open it himself, but he had to be patient. "But you said he couldn't be killed."

Weasley reached out and opened the door to reveal a ghastly sight. On the floor lay a rubbery flesh colored suit. Like a crappy Halloween mask designed to cover the entire body. The lumpy face pooled atop a mass of rubbery fingers and toes. Vivid red eyes bulged from weary lids. The snakelike pupils constricted as the light hit them, sending a jolt of realization through Billy's core.

 _It's not a suit. This thing is alive. It's Voldemort._

"My ssseecond year, we had a Defense against the Dark Arts Professor," Weasley drawled on, "who tried to fix Harry's broken arm. Only he was alllll rubbish. Vanished all the bones from Harry's arm. They were just gone. And the thing about vanishing bones, is there's no quick fix. It takes loads of time to regrow them. Loads of Skele-Gro."

Billy could only stare. Over time, it seemed dust had accumulated on the rubbery form of Lord Voldemort. Even on those snakelike eyes. And yet Voldemort didn't blink. Maybe he couldn't.

Weasley reached out and poked one of the eyes, letting out a childish giggle as the body convulsed, jiggling violently like a bunch of conscious Jello.

"Bones are the anchor for movement. Without bones, the muscles and tendonnns have nothing to pull against. He can't use a wand in this state. He can't even speak."

"But." Billy couldn't believe his eyes. "But, Voldemort's dead. Everyone knows—"

"Harry is the hhhhero of our story. Voldemort was defeated by the boy who lived. Yeah, y-yeah, no one knows that better than me, Billy. We sspread that together. It was the only way no one would bring Voldy a bottle of Skele-Gro. The Death Eaters never learned what I did to him. For all they know, he really is dead. Shhhhh." Weasley pressed a finger to his sticky beard hole and shut the door. "Billy."

"What is it, headmaster?" Billy feigned innocence.

"I shouldn'ta told yeh that, Billy. I shouldn'ta told yeh. Our secret?" His tone was sleepy and slurred, but behind it was a pinch of concern. Billy wondered if Weasely would even remember this when he sobered up. The old fool.

"Of course, headmaster."

. . .

Billy's classes were all a blur. Even his favorite subjects had lost their flavor. Billy sat in the back of the room, lacking the focus even to hatch out mischief with his group of cronies. What use was setting off firesnaps in the middle of Transfiguration? What was the ultimate goal of such a thing?

Boyle shot a look of annoyance from a few desks over, pocketing the handful of fireworks they'd had planned. Billy knew he was losing points with his peers. And yet, he was a Slytherin. He should have greater aims.

Because Weasley was right. The second year was a pivotal year. And he wasn't going to waste his opportunity. There was too much to gain. Too much to learn.

He felt the shape of his family heirloom in the pocket of his robes. Perhaps it was time to put it to use. Skele-Gro was only a locked door away. And given the state of this miserable school's security, he would have no trouble navigating the night swathed corridors.

. . .

The ugly gargoyle hung before him once more. The corridor was silent as death. Even the portraits were sleeping.

He breathed the words, rapping the statue with his wand. "Pumpkin Juice."

The grating of stone rumbled through the quiet, making Billy's blood rise through him, burning in the tips of his ears. If he were caught in front of the Headmaster's office with a stolen bottle of Skele-Gro, the game would be up. Even Slytherins had their limits when it came to spinning lies.

He shot a look down the hall, half expecting to see Potter hobbling toward him, his cane clacking furiously.

But there was nothing.

His foot found the first stair. He sealed his anxiety away, bottling up his thoughts as he scaled his way to the waiting door.

His fingers grasped his family heirloom: an iron Skeleton Key that shifted its shape to unlock any door of his choosing, even doors protected by enchantments. The item had come in useful many times before, but now it would do so much more. This might be the most important task it had ever assisted him in.

He grasped for the doorknob, expecting to have to feel out the keyhole. But the door creaked inward at his touch. _Wacky old fossil has been drinking again._

He was a little disappointed not to put his key to use. But he pocketed it all the same, treading into the dark interior.

The clawfooted desk was abandoned, the chess game sitting alone on its surface, half finished.

 _The Dark Lord waits._ Billy approached the wardrobe, resting his fingers on the coiled snake-knob. He held his breath, trying to calm the hammer-like pulse that filled his ears.

He pulled the door open, allowing moonlight from the open curtain to spill onto Voldemort's flaccid form.

"I've brought you something," he whispered. There was no impulse in him to call the fleshy mass _Master._ It would flip the dominance of the relationship. He only planned to give the dark lord enough of his bones back so that they could communicate. So that Billy could at last have a proper teacher in this terrible place. Someone who could help him learn Parseltongue. Someone who could teach him to make Horcruxes of his own, to become a master over death. Voldemort had had his chance, after all. Now it was Billy's turn.

This was perhaps why he hadn't yet written his father about this. He didn't want any adults bungling this up—mistaking this as a mere chance to revive Voldemort, instead of seeing it for what it truly was.

It was awkward, positioning Voldemort's flappy lips into a drinking shape. But after a few moments of struggle, Billy managed to form a seal, tipping the bottle up so that its contents glugged gently down Voldemort's throat.

From what he'd learned from his library reading in the last few days, Skele-Gro was painful to endure and would take most of the night for its effects to take hold. And that was for something simple, like a boneless arm. For an entire skeleton, it could take longer than that. He may have to hide Voldemort elsewhere for a while. Such as the room of requirement, or an abandoned classroom.

But first he would wait and see how fast the progress was. He wasn't going to drag that nasty pile of flesh and muscle all around Hogwarts if he didn't have to.

The sliver of moonlight slowly paned across the floor. The portraits of headmasters snored their gentle snores. Billy waited to hear Voldemort's groans as the agony of regrowth took him. But there wasn't so much as a whimper. The dark lord lay there, snake eyes half lidded as his body changed almost imperceptibly.

Billy felt his head nod, bumping against the wardrobe with a soft _thunk._

He'd let himself drift off. Something had changed while he was asleep—a soft dragging sound rousing him from his slumber.

A half formed naked body lay halfway out of the wardrobe. The bones were small, but sufficient enough for the muscle to pull against. A pale flabby hand slid forward, prying long fingernails into the cracks of the floor, gripping hard to drag itself toward the door.

Billy jumped to his feet, alarmed and confused at the sight. Was Voldemort trying to escape him? Already, when their alliance had just begun?

"Geshh me oushh." The voice was muffled through thick floppy lips and a lethargic tongue, but it was unmistakably creepy to its core. It was undeniably the voice of Lord Voldemort. "Gesh—me—pleasshhh, Billy—"

"Get you out?" Billy echoed. The dark lord sounded so weak. So cowardly. He only stared as Voldemort groped again with his underdeveloped hand, dragging himself toward the door.

A light snapped on at the claw-footed desk, painting the room with an eerie and unwelcomed sense of reality.

Professor Weasley and Professor Potter sat behind the desk on either side of the chessboard.

"Now that's a wizard's chess," Weasley gloated as Potter's king was toppled.

"Goblin balls," Potter cursed, scratching at his mane of crazy hair before turning to fix Billy with a crooked grin. "What is it you've got there, Billy?"

Weasley scooted out from behind the desk, taking his crystal of spiked pumpkin juice with him. "Care to explain yourself, Billy?"

Billy couldn't answer. Dread sank through him like a stone. It was over. He should have been more careful. He looked down at the floor where Voldemort struggled, clawing for the doorway with a fresh panic. A frothy roar bubbled from the dark lord's lips.

"PLEASHHH! FUCH NO! NOSH AGAIN! WEASHELY, I'll TELL YOU EVERYSHING! MY HORCRUSH ISH HIDDEN IN-"

Professor Weasley smacked his wand lazily at the fleshy puddle that was Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort's body deflated like a punctured innertube. "NNOOOOO—NNNNN—NNNnnnnnnnnnn!"

The dark lord's movements were reduced to violent convulsions, hundreds of muscles and tendons pulling against bones that were no longer there.

Billy watched him, speechless, his greatest potential teacher wriggling horribly in the middle of the floor.

 _I'll be expelled for this._ The thought surfaced dully, a detail that seemed oddly unimportant, superficial.

He looked up to see the two wizards surveying him. Professor Potter's eyes were twinkling behind his glasses.

"You might wonder how it is we snuck up on you, Billy," Professor Weasley said. "Well, lets just say I know someone with an invisibility cloak."

Billy suddenly felt cornered, stupid for falling for their trick. "You can't blame me for doing it! You can't get drunk and tell someone something like this and expect them to leave it alone!"

Weasley's beard hole shifted, indicating a grin hid somewhere behind it. "You really think I'd be drunk in the middle of the day?"

"You—you…" Billy stammered. "The pumpkin juice."

"Would I do a thing like that? Me? Ronald Weasley, conqueror of the Dark Lord Voldemort? I suppose you thought my resentment toward the Boy Who Lived was real as well—that I never graduated my adolescent struggles with my own self worth? Please." The headmaster's eyes were alive in a way Billy had never seen. A wild pride burned within, hotter than Fiendfyre. "I'm the goddamn Headmaster of Hogwarts. EAT SLUGS!" Weasley ended in a hoarse shout, slashing his wand down on Voldemort's crippled form.

There was a panicked outburst in reply. "NNNNNNNnnnnnnn!" Voldemort thrashed again as a bulge sprouted in the flaccid throat, growing in size as it oozed mouthward.

Potter pulled himself up from his chair as if on some silent cue. He clacked across the floor, pushing and prodding the Dark Lord with his candy-striped walking cane.

Voldemort rolled back toward the wardrobe, a mass of flopping lifeless fingers and wobbling toes. A sight so comic and yet so utterly horrible.

The muffled moans continued, but more gently now. As if he'd already relented in spirit, if not vocally. "Nnnnnnnnnnn—nnnnnn—nnn."

Voldemort was back in the wardrobe. Potter leaned on his cane, smiling smartly at the Headmaster, resting one hand on the wardrobe door.

The first enormous slug plopped from Voldemort's immobile lips. Judging by the swollen lump, a second slug had already begun its planned exit. Voldemort was through trying to scream now. Instead, a single tear rolled down the folds of his cheek. And then the wardrobe door closed, sealing Voldemort away from the rest of the world.

"Better out than in, Billy." Professor Potter announced, sagely. "Better out than in."

It was something about the way Potter said this. As though it was a tired expression. Something he'd said time and time again. Only then did Billy wonder how many times they'd done this exact thing. How many times had these two allowed a wayward student to partially revive the Dark Lord? To give Lord Voldemort a taste of escape, only to tear it away from him at the last moment, confining him back in his eternal wardrobe of torment.

 _Voldemort even tried to give up his horcrux's location. But Weasley doesn't care. They have him where they want him._

"So tell me, Billy," Professor Weasley was leaning against the clawfooted desk, legs crossed, arms folded. "What is your opinion of eternal life, now that you've seen it for yourself?"

Billy opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was nothing he could say.

"Are you interested in fashioning Horcruxes for yourself?" Professor Potter inquired. "Most Dark Lords worth their salt have at least one. Handy things, they are."

Billy waited for the axe to fall. For the two professors to deal out their final judgment on him. Expulsion, house points. Whatever would come, Billy promised himself he wouldn't cry. And yet already he felt a hot lump form in his throat. His eyes prickled.

"Billy," Weasely said gently. "I want you to go back to your dormitory and get some rest. You've had a very busy night and I want to make sure you're sharp for your classes tomorrow."

"You're not expelling me?" he choked.

"Expel you? Haven't you been listening, Billy? It's your second year of Hogwarts: the most important year there is. And you've already learned so much."

Billy left the room in a daze, hardly managing to grasp his good fortune. He hadn't been expelled, nor had he lost House points for Slytherin. Which meant they were still in the running for House cup. Above all, Billy was grateful that he wasn't Lord Voldemort.

As he stepped out into the hallway, he heard a distinctive snap from the room behind him. The sound of two old professors high fiving each other.


End file.
